Breathless
by Doxx
Summary: Alistair/Zevran, The crow and the extemplar, entwined together, through adversities galore. M/M.
1. Chapter 1

Bioware owns dragons age, I just put words together. M/M story.

Taliesin stood on the top on the steps, a tactical advantage and Zevran felt himself loath to meet his eyes. This would not end well.

Through the following conversation, Zevran's refusal to rejoin the Crows, and the subsequent attack on the collected assassins and rouges and whatever else Talesin had managed to convince to join him, Zevran could not shake the feeling that there was no happy outcome to be found in this situation.

On seeing the party work together, Taliesin frowned. Zevran was sheilded by the male grey warden when his own assassins tried to flank and overwhelm them, and there was a shouting hairy dwarf smashing through his ranks to allow the other grey warden access to the archers. The former Crow was never known for working well with others, yet here he was, his quickness and skill complimenting the brute strength of his companions. Shaking his head, he did not hesitate in fleeing the slaughter, and only Zevran noticed, with a wary gaze, Taliesin jumping up and bolting over the nearby rooftops.

_Just as well_, Zevran thought, _he'll find a better life away from the Crows_.

The party decided that a warm bed and hot meal would serve them much more than cold bedrolls and Alistair's 'rabbit stew with rabbit'. The Gnawed Noble had enough rooms to accomodate them all, and they each happily settled for an early night.

Zevran awoke to a tightness around his neck, and in alarm he pushed himself out of bed. He saw Taliesin standing over him, a chain in his hand. Naked upon the cold stone floor, having chosen to let his undergarments air in the 'safety' of the inn Zevran cursed his compliancy, but he did remember his weapons were by the bedside, some habits too ingrained to forgo. Zevran reached for daggers which were not there, and slowly raised a hand to his neck. He felt a chain there, too close for comfort, but no catch or release mechanism. He's seen these before, similar to the choke chains used to train Mhabri deemed too vicious for imprinting. A cruel weapon, but not lethal... which spoke of Taliesin's intentions.

"You've grown soft Zev... A warm bed and you lose your wits it seems."

"I will not to back to the Crows....No matter what you do to me." Zevran hissed, realising that Taliesin held the slack of the chain, making it hard to draw breath.

"This isn't about the Crows you fool, its about you and I"

Zevran tried to stand to meet the other elf face to face, but Taliesin yanked upon the chain, and Zevran fell to the ground, fighting for breath.

"She chose you.... I gave her everything and she still chose you. You could have at least had the decency to love her!"

"... Rinna?"

"Of course Rinna! Even as she died she looked to you... and you just laughed..." Talesin's voice had grown softer, darker, and Zevran realised why he was here. Not for him, and not for the Crows, not even for Rinna... for venageance.... Talesin's eyes held a cold cruelty Zevran knew would have mirrored his own a bare few months ago, before he had met the Grey Warden.

Then the door creaked open, and Alistair, half dressed and obvious half asleep stood in the doorway, frowning.

"For pity's sake Zevran.. Whatever you're doing, can't you do it quietly?" And then Alistair took in the scene, and, flushing with embrassassment made to shut the door, thinking that Zevran was somehow consenting to this... Zevran realised he'd have to act quickly, lest he lose the only chance of escape he had.

"Help me!" Zevran gasped, even as Talesin pulled the chain so tight Zevran was forced to arch upwards, desperately trying to gain some space to breathe. Alistair, confused but shocked into action by the proud Zevran's uncharacteristic plea, moved forward, shoulder-barging the assassin and using his weight to knock them both off balance. Held between the floor and the ex-templar, Talesin could only hiss his fury as Alistair stuck his head. Alistair winced as Talesin went limp, and got shakily to his feet.

"What just happened?"

"Your timely intervention just saved my life Alistair.... He was going to kill me...." Zevran suppressed a shudder, his voice low, "It would not have been a good death...."

Seemingly unashamed of his lack of clothes, or the fact he was wheezing heavily Zevran bent down and managed to finally claim back some slack on the chain, pulling it over his head and rubbing the redness round his neck. Looking round the room he found where Talesin had moved his daggers, and, avoiding Alistair's eyes, drew a blade sharply across the downed assassin's throat. Blood gushed and pooled on the floor, and Zevran felt a weight press hard upon his chest. He stood back, and met Alistair's eyes. They were not judging, but soft, concerned.

"Let's get you out of here, we can deal with ..ilthat/il in the morning."

Zevran let himself be led from the room, feeling lightheaded and weak from being breathless so long. He was slightly surprised when Alistair opened the door to his own room, and gestured the elf inside.

"There's only the one bed, but I'm just as happy on the ground." Alistair turned his back to drag a bedroll from the cluttered pile of camping gear and armour stashed in the corner of the room. Watching the large man bend over and try to prize out the tattered bedroll without making any noise was amusing in itself, but when the bedroll appeared stuck, and caused Alistair to heave Zevran felt a wry smile touch his lips, and a series of wicked thoughts enter his head.

"Alistair...?" Zevran croaked, as he perched himself upon the bed.

Alistair turned round, to see Zevran touch slender fingers to the red welts on his neck, and clambered over hurriedly.

"Maker I'm so stupid, I didn't see...Didn't think... Do you want me to fetch Wynn? Or a set of bandages...?"

Zevran shook his head, smiling faintly.

"No... but I do want to repay you for what you did tonight."

"Repay...?" Alistair swallowed thickly, the glint in the Antivan's eyes unnerving him.

Zevran placed a hand on Alistiars shoulder, pulling him alongside him on the bed, and ran his other hand down Alistair's board chest.

"Um.. Zev? I'm not sure what you're planning... but... I...." Alistair voice was silenced by Zevran's soft breath on his neck, and his fingers gently stroking over the material of his undergarments. He tilted his head back in a moan, and Zevran pressed his lips against the soft skin of his throat, his hand working round the underwear, loosening them round Alistair's hips.

"So Alistair... will you let me thank you.. in my own way?" Zevran's voice carried his sly smile as Alistair fought to control himself under the elf's tender attentions.

"...Ye... yes." Alistair breathed heavily as Zevran slipped to the floor, dragging the undergarments from Alistair and letting his hot breath caress Alistair's rapidly growing arsoual. With one hand around the small of Alistair's back, pulling him in and the other gently sliding between Alistair's legs and teasing his ballsack, Zevran leaned in. He started to kiss the tip of Alistairs manhood, tongue darting out and drinking in the taste of his partner. Gripping the bedsheets, toes curled, Alistair felt the Antivan's tongue lavish over him. He tried to hold onto some semblance of thought, but as Zevran took him in he was lost in wave of pleasure.

Mouth filled, and sucking slowly Zevran made murmurs of satifation at Alistair's low moans, the vibrations carrying up Alistair's spine. He grabbed at Zevran's head, urging him closer, feeling the soft blond hair brush against his knuckles. Zevran would not be rushed, he took his time, teasing and tasting, pushing Alistair to the limits of his thershold.

Zevran pulled Alistair in as deep as he could, using both hands on his hips and swallowing hungrily. Savouring the heat, and running his lips up and down the lenght of him, building up tension and pace, his own breath coming short and shallow as he felt Alistair reach the point of climax. When he felt Alistair shudder with release he slowly let the other man slump onto the bed. Alistair however, rather than loosening his grip on the elf pulled him tighter, bringing a long ear to his panting lips.

"...More."

Zevran's surprise lasted only a moment, as he guided Alistair round on the bed, himself underneath. He watched the other man intently, and saw the look of desire, of lust and gave himself up to the emotions, nodding his approval. Alistair's weight upon his body was welcome, warming and the smell of sweat and arousal flooded his senses, draining him of any will to resist.

Alistair bent down, pressing his mouth against Zevran's, kissing him deeply. His tongue met the elf's, and his hands cupped round the slender face, fingers tracing the dark lines of ink there. Leaning into the kiss, savoring the heat building between their bodies, Alistair felt the ex-Crow's own excitement against his thigh. He uttered a breathly grunt as he slid a hand to wrap round it, marveling at how it made the elf's lithe body twitch and writhe in responce.

Zevran arched into Alistair's embrace, his teeth brushing aginst cheek, nibbling lightly on Alistiar's ear until the man's breath caught. Deft fingers caressed around muscles, and down his spine, dancing across nipples and up the inside of Alistair's leg. Alistair swayed as he tried to stop his arms from buckling, and found himself supported by Zevran, a knowing grin spreading across his face. Tilting Alistiar to the side so he had room to maneuver, he became kissing down his neck, round nipples and past Alistair's taunt stomach. He licked Alistair's hardening member, making it slick with salvia before crawling back up the bed to meet Alistair's eyes.

Tingling with desire, Zevran started to raise his hips, one leg round Alistair's waist as he guided them into position for penetraion. Alistair took a shuddering breath as Zevran moved himself forward and back, stroking the tip, readying himself. Unable to hold back one second longer, he plunged forth, watching Zevran gasp as he filled the Antivan.

He pressed forwards, then started to move. Zevran felt himself clutch tightly with his leg, his hips matching Alistair's pace, his back arched and his head pressed into the bed. As Alistair started to delve deeper, Zevran found it hard to breathe, his breath being forced out by the delicious throbbing pressure Alistair was building inside of him. His short gasps, and the way his entire body moved in time with his thrusts drove Alistair to grip the elf by the hips, and pound harder into him. Zevran found himself at the mercy of a lust he could not control, and did not want to. Alistair's wild grunts, and desperate slamming against the elf drove him to arch and surge from the bed, his gratification spurting froth in a hot heat he could no longer contain. As Zevran's back stretched suddenly, Alistair felt the elf tightening around him and with a low gasping cry he pushed inside the elf one final time, ejeculating deep into Zevran.

They collapsed together, breathing heavily, bodies beaded with sweat. Zevran allowed Alistair to wrap one heated arm around him, and nuzzle into his neck, and soon, Alistair's breath slowed to a peaceful snore as he fell alseep. Carefully, Zevran reached for the blanket, and pulled it over them, trying not to disturb Alistair as he made sure neither would catch a chill through the night.

How they would explain the body in the bedroom, how they would move on from tonight and how they would handle the other party members' reactions, these were all things best tackled after a good night sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a week since they had spent the night together, and Alistair had been avoiding him. Worse, the grey warden could not seem to meet Zevran's eyes, instead studying the floor whenever the elf was nearby. At first Zevran had planned to leave Alistair be, let him come to terms in his own time without pressure, but he was fast realising that without some form of prompt, Alistair would continue to avoid him.  
And he was surprisingly good at finding little tasks that took him out of the Antivan's way, and generally being difficult to corner when the party had gathered together. He would use some flimsy excuse about needing a second or even third helping of dinner if Zevran approached him after a meal, or claim he had an unknown sister to visit in Denerim. The others seemed unaware of what had happened the night Zevran didn't die, and for that at least Zevran was grateful. He had a feeling that the first snarky comment might cause Alistair to combust with embarrassment.  
Sighing, Zevran leaned back against the bookshelf in the Arl's homestead. He had hoped that the night with the ex-templar was not a one-off incident, but the aching silence was not promising. He wanted to talk to Alistair, to reassure, to explain, to say something that would mend this mess. Zevran also found himself surprised that he wanted to 'fix' things, more than the idea of another evening in his company, he wanted to make sure that Alistair wasn't hurt... or angry with him.  
He heard a door, and lightly wandered over to see who was approaching. His smile was just a little slow as he saw Lieanna round the corner, and she slowed as she came up to the elf.  
"Is he still giving you the run around?"  
Zevran scowled, that girl could appear sweetness and light but it hid a sharp insight. He had thought that no-one bar himself and Alistair knew.  
"Oh come now, don't look at me like that. You watch him like a hawk whenever you're in the same room, and I don't think I've ever seen anyone run so fast to do dishes... Wynn has been trying to convince him that you are honestly not trying to assassinate him, she thinks he is scared of you!"  
"It would possibly be much simpler if I were just trying to assassinate him."  
Lieanna tipped her head to the side, "Perhaps. It is always harder to win a heart than break it."  
"Bah, I have no wish to 'win his heart'," Zevran flicked his hand, dismissing the notion.  
"Then what do you want?"  
Those words hung in the air, and Zevran found himself without an answer. Lieanna smiled sadly, and patted him on the shoulder as she passed, disappearing off to her room.  
He brushed himself of her touch, his mood suddenly dark. Stalking back to his position by the bookcase, but this time within sight of the door so he could watch who entered, he crossed his arms.  
Amends. He wanted to make amends with Alistair, who was a companion who he had slept with, once. Should the grey warden wish nothing more of the Antivan's company, so be it. Zevran would then be free to bed someone else, someone more willing, and much less complicated.  
Yet, the idea of sharing a bed with anyone but Alistair sat uneasily in his mind. He thought of the strong hands against his body, those low moans of pleasure and the raw passion of Alistair's gaze, but also the softness in his eyes and the safety Zevran had felt in his arms that night. He was not used to trusting another person, the way of the crows warned against such behavior and his own bitter life experience had more or less driven any desire to rely on another from his head. He had prided himself on his coldness, congratulated himself that he depended on noone, and yet... he trusted Alistair. He found himself trusting everyone in their odd little group (even Morrigan, though he was always wary when she reached for her staff after a light-hearted jibe), but Alistair had defended him in battle, and laughed at his jokes by the campfire even though most of them caused him to blush furiously. Alistair had listened when Zevran had been asked of his mother, and later, quietly when they were alone, spoke of his own unknown mother, also killed in childbirth. They had shared a silence which was strong and moving, and neither had had to say anything.  
_This_ silence however, was causing no end of problems. Resolved, Zevran decided that tonight he would get Alistair to talk to him, even if he had to ambush the warden in the night.  
He felt a sudden surge of panic in his chest, and with a slow sigh he realised why he'd not spoken to Alistair already, he was afraid. Afraid that Alistair would reveal he had regrets, that Alistair would tell him that their night together was a mistake, that Alistair would say no, a final, and undeniable no. At least in the silence, there was the hope of uncertainly. A hope that something could work between an assassin and a grey warden, between them. Breaking the silence would dispel that uncertainty, and that made Zevran uneasy.  
"Brasca..." he muttered.

Lieanna had finished sorting out her clothes, though it had taken her more time than usual to settle on a pair of shoes for the evening. After spending so much time on the road finally having more than one set of fresh clothes was both a blessing and a curse. As she across to the kitchens to make a start on dinner, she noticed a familiar figure, pacing by the bookshelves on near soundless feet. He must have been there for hours, and from the look on his face, he was deep in unhappy thoughts.  
Though she was tempted to try and speak to Zevran, her instinct told her to leave the elf to himself. It seemed he had enough trouble admitting his feelings to himself, nevermind to someone else.  
She slipped quietly by, and was only a little surprised to find that Zevran hadn't noticed at all....

Zevran was still watching the doors that night, his appetite having fled and his stomach filled with butterflies instead. He knew that the grey wardens had gone to talk to the queen, or meet her servant, or something of the like. He hadn't really caught the details, as Alistair had volunteered and pratically ran out the door, his fellow warden, Wynn and Sten chasing after him. Yet another tactic the ex-templar was employing to keep a distance between himself and Zevran.  
By the time the dinner plates were cleared, they still hadn't returned. This did not help Zevran settle any, and he found himself patrolling the bookshelves impatiently. The others were giving him a wide berth, his brooding mood earning him space to haunt the stacks of books undisturbed.  
When the doors opened suddenly, and there followed a flurry of activity and shouting, he knew something was wrong. He'd not seen the pale look on the female warden's face before, nor seen her clench her fists so tight. She was battleworn, her light armor cut in places, and a gash on her arm. She led a woman who he guessed to be the queen, her scurrying maid, a bruised Wynn and limping Sten in a fast march straight to the Arl's study, calling for servants to fetch elfroot, bandages and hot water. He followed quickly, noting with rising dread that Alistair was not there.  
He only caught pieces of the conversation, as the group explained that they had been ambushed upon rescuing the queen. He found it hard to focus as everyone seemed to talk at once, recounting the tale and attempting to tend to the injuries at the same time. Zevran let out a long breath, he hadn't realised he was holding when he heard that Alistair was alive, last they saw, but captured. At this, the grey warden's voice tightened, explaining she'd slipped into shadows, hiding herself during the battle when she saw that they could not win. It was a trick she'd learnt from Zevran himself, but the guilt she felt at abandoning Alistair was obvious.  
The Arl tried to reassure her that it was better that both grey wardens were not lost, and, seeing the look in her eye banned her from heading out to Fort Drakon.  
"We cannot risk you. We need someone else to break in and rescue Alistair... The fort is heavily guarded, countless forces inside, all armed and well defended. I doubt very much that a frontal assault will be anything more than a suicide mission. I think perhaps stealth might be our best option, someone to sneak in and out without alerting the guards..."  
Zevran found himself in the doorway, being watched intently by those within the room. He nodded, finding a weak smile.  
"At your service...."

------

Impatient as he was, the planning of the rescue could not be rushed. He spent his evening in the local bars, chatting causally to the patrons until he found servants who worked at the fort. His charming manner in attentively listening to the hardships of the working rota, and cleaning schedules served him well, and he started to build a picture of the fort, while he deftly pocketed keys while eyes were looking deep into his own. Three times he was told to get back to the allienage where he belonged, and twice he had to refuse the advances of his new found 'friends'. During the day, he spent long hours working a dark oil into his leathers, making them soft and silent as possible, and almost black in colour. He worked in the kitchens, making poisonous concoctions and then concentrating them until they were a sticky paste. He watched the ebb and flow of people around Fort Drakon, observing when groups left for the tavern, or seemed to switch guard. He made note of the blind spots around the sentry wall, and where the best cover was.  
He knew he had to get this right first time, and so this preparation was necessary, lest they double the guards, or move Alistair to a secret location, or, if they were truly ruthless, execute the grey warden there and then to avoid further attempts to free him. He also knew however, that every hour that passed would wear on the warden.  
His eyes took on an intense focus, and his jaw was tight. His words became clipped, and he suddenly had no time for the frivolous chatter the other had come to expect from him. When he did make attempts at sleep, it was fitful, but while on his feet he remained restless, pacing constantly and ceaselessly going over the details in his mind.  
He refused to let himself dwell on what he might find once inside the fort, what sort of state Alistair would be in, using his work to distract him. By night however, memories of Antivan torture racks, and long trials in dark cells haunted his dreams, and he would awake with new vigor.  
Four days after the party had returned with the news of Alistair's imprisonment, Zevran was ready.

------

Alistair hated the nights most, the chill in the air having worked into his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. His shoulders ached, his wrists hung above him in chains. The skin around the metal cuffs was raw, and he could smell blood.  
He was cold, too cold to think straight. He knew he was in Fort Drakon, and that his chances of leaving this place were nonexistent. Time passed strangely, disjointedly. Guards came in intermittently, bringing water and food. Sometimes they would kick him, or taunt him, but he was too tired, his body too numb to react. At first he had struggled, pulled against the chains and tried to stand, tried to fight. He had shouted, and roared, his voice echoing against the cell walls. The guards, safe in their armor, safe out of reach of his bound rage, had laughed. He had tried to plan escape, tried to talk with the guards, tried to reason, bribe and deceive, all to no avail. Now he just sat, trying to keep his bare back from the freezing stone floor by siting upon his legs, until they cramped.  
His consciousness was a haze of half formed thoughts, and the ever-present rattle of his body trying to regain some heat, some feeling. He heard dogs barking, he'd heard them before, but not like this. It sounded like someone was pulling teeth from an entire pack of war mabrai. There was short sharp shouts, and more crazed barking.  
He absently wondered if someone had finally taken offence at the constant claims that Ferelden smelt of wet dogs, and decided to remedy the situation.  
His head lolled to the side as he heard someone at the door. There was no swift turn of a key, but rather a tinny scrapping, and the sound of tiny metal rods clicking against each other.  
The door swung open, slowly, and a lithe figure stood in the doorway, tensed in readiness.  
"Ah, here you are... Did you miss me?" The voice was whispered, but unmistakable.  
"...Zevran?" Alistair's voice was hoarse, and he twisted to confirm that he wasn't dreaming.  
"Hush, it took me a little longer than I'd have liked to find you. They do not have any system for marking who they have in each cell, most inconsiderate."  
Zevran was crouched down beside him, studying him over. He did not seem disturbed that Alistair was naked, but he looked over the dark bruises with severe eyes. His mouth was a thin line without expression, as he pulled a flask out from his belt.  
"Here," he offered it to Alistair, who was finding it difficult to focus his eyes. It tasted like flat ale, but it was liquid and he drank gratefully.  
"Small sips," Zevran advised, pulling it away to stop Alistair from gulping down too much and making himself sick. Licking his dry lips, Alistair saw that Zevran was reaching up, and tinkering with the metal shackles. He seemed business-like, and moved so close to his work that Alistair could smell the Antivan, and feel the warmth that radiated through the dark leather. Letting out a long and shuddering sigh, Alistair let his body lean into the elf's chest, wanting to claim some of that heat for himself. He felt Zevran take a breath and hold it, suddenly still. Dragging his head upwards, he tried to see the elf's face, but Zevran had already returned to the task of picking the locks, seemingly accepting that Alistair was going to press into him while he worked. His eyes were strange, colder than the cell.  
"Zev.. I..."  
"Alistair," Zevran said flatly, "we need to get you out of here as quickly, and as quietly as possible. The guards are either dead or distracted for the moment, but I can't fight off a whole fortress. You do not need to say anything... not right now at least."  
Stunned into silence, Alistair had to bite down a gasp of pain his one of his hands dropped from the metal cuff. Slowly, he stretched his fingers, wincing as needles of feeling returned. The other hand was released, and Zevran allowed Alistair a moment to overcome the pain the freedom brought. Checking that the doorway was still clear, and drawing a set of foul smelling daggers he rose gracefully to his feet. He gestured to the flask.  
"Drink a little more, and then we'll see if you can walk."  
Alistair lifted the flask gingerly, his body stiff and unwilling. He restrained himself now, taking only enough liquid to coat his tongue, breathing deeply between swallows. Slowly, he put an arm out to the wall and pulled himself upright, swaying slightly as the blood left his head. Gritting his teeth, he took a small step forwards. He was unsteady, and could not hold a weapon, but he could stand unaided. Zevran nodded quietly, thankful for Alistair's strength.  
"There are clothes here, put them on while I make sure the path is still unmanned," Zevran passed a bundle of dark grey wools to Alistair, who, using the wall for support, started to dress. When he looked up, the elf had gone. Dogs still barked, furiously filling the air with noise.  
Alistair had finished pulling the last boot on when Zevran returned. The elf had a gash on the side of his face, blood trickling down the side of his ear, and his dagger had a coating of something dark and red. He did not wipe it clean, as he would normally, instead he smiled wickedly.  
"The way is clear."

Alistair had it explained to him once he had claimed a day and a half's rest and eaten four portions of stew, when he was in a state more able to understand. It was another day before he was able to actually bring himself to talk about what had happened, and together start to piece together the events. He didn't remember many of the details of the rescue, everything fuzzy from the days of imprisonment. He was told that Zevran had single handedly killed nearly everyone on shift in the east wing of the fort where Alistair had been held, just as the shift had changed over. Poisoned daggers and his unnerving stealth had helped, though he'd taken a few retaliatory blows as he cut down the last of the soldiers. Meanwhile, he'd drugged the mabrai hounds with a powerful aphrodisiac, causing a suitably noisy and chaotic distraction while they slipped out. By that point, Alistair had been barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the effort of such moment after days of stillness draining him almost entirely. He recalled someone charging, and being unable to move fast enough to avoid a swinging blade, but on careful examination of himself could find no injury worse than some bruised ribs and tender wrists.  
His sister grey warden sat with him, answering his questions and fetching more stew, and eventually he got her to stop apologizing. Once he felt strong enough, he asked quietly where Zevran was.  
"...I could go fetch him?" Something in her eyes changed, something she wasn't telling him. He threw her a questioning look, and she sighed.  
"Zevran... changed when you were captured. He stopped smiling, and I've never seen anyone so driven. He spent every waking moment arranging things to get you out, planning and plotting and preparing... and now you're safe again... I think he's at a bit of a loss of what to do with himself now the crisis is over,"  
Alistair nodded, unsure of what he could say to this. He'd seen the look in Zevran's face as the elf freed him, it was focused and ruthless. It had scared him, not seeing any of the jovial character he'd known behind those eyes, just stone-hearted determination. Nevermind the mess they still had to discuss from before Loghain had seized him. Speaking to the Antivan would not be easy, but Alistair felt that saying thank you would be as good a start as any.  
"I'll go speak to him... He is in his room?" Alistair started to get up, feeling his body finally start to ease into motion without pain again.  
That look again, something amiss....  
"He has not left it since he returned...."  
That surprised Alistair, he could not imagine the elf brooding, nor confined to a bedroom for any length of time. He started down the corridor immediately.  
He was stopped, repeatedly, by people wanting to make sure he was well, eager to express their happiness at seeing him in one piece. He nodded and reassured and then nodded some more. Eventually, tired and nervous, he came to a closed door. He knocked, and when he received no answer pushed against it slowly. It opened, and inside he saw Zevran sitting on the bed, knees up to his chest and head resting in his hand. His other arm had a long length of bandage wrapped down from shoulder to wrist, but it hadn't been changed recently. He was watching the door, and his eyes flashed surprised when Alistair entered, closing the door softly behind him.  
"Hello Zevran," he found his voice quietened by the sight of the elf, his hair lank and unwashed, his eyes dark. Zevran fixed upon Alistair, legs uncurling in front of him. He looked almost predatory then, and Alistair felt a twinge of fear at having shut the door behind him.  
"Hello." No smile, no hint of wry amusement, no... emotion in the voice. Alistair understood now the look in his sister warden's eyes, it was fear. Something was definitely changed about Zevran, something was very wrong.  
"I.. I wanted to thank you for what you did. I can't imagine how I can ever thank you enough, I-"  
"You are welcome."  
Alistair frowned, as the Antivan gave a slow nod and then diverted his eyes downwards. He stood in the middle of the room, trying to find words caught in his throat, trying to fathom what had possibly happened to his friend. He took a slow, gentle step forward.  
"Zev.. " he said softly, reaching out to lay a hand upon the bandaged forearm closest to him. As soon as his fingers touched upon the covering Zevran flinched sharply.  
"Don't," the word was growled low and dangerous, and Zevran's eyes were narrowed. Alistair swallowed, and without taking his eyes from the elf's, reached out, more firmly this time.  
"I should have come to you before... We needed to talk but I was too scared to say anything. It was easier to tell myself I had a blight to deal with.... but you deserved more than that. And Maker, the way you watched me all the time.... I thought if I just stayed out of your way, that you'd maybe forgive me in your own time."  
Whether it was the hand upon his arm, or the fact Alistair had sat himself on the edge of the bed, Zevran's face changed. There was something of surprise, a fleeing look of confusion. He took a short breath, "Forgive you..?"  
"I took advantage of you!" Alistair's voice came out hurried, the things he'd wanted to say rushing through his mouth now, "You were venerable, you'd nearly been *killed*, and I lost control. I should have let you be, but you were so close, so warm.... I ought to have been stronger. It was not fair to you, what I did. I wanted to say something, but what could I say? I am so sorry...."  
He could hear Zevran breathing, slow and steady, and then felt him shift on the bed, moving legs out the way so that he was face to face with the extemplar.  
"That is what you thought? That is why you were avoiding me?"  
Alistair nodded, bringing up his hands to hide his face, hide the shame and the gloss of tears in his eyes.  
Soft hands covered his, pulling them gently away. He saw Zevran's eyes, staring deep into his own.  
"We are such a pair. You need no forgiveness, my proposal to repay you was sincere, and I am glad you took me up on my offer. I was very forward however, and when you did not speak to me, I imagined that you perhaps were not as willing as I had thought. I thought you were avoiding me because you were angry at myself! I am rather relieved to be wrong."  
The sound of Zevran's laughter filled the room, and Alistair felt relieve flood through him, lifting his shame and guilt and spirits. He was about to pull Zevran into an embrace when he felt the elf move from his grasp, his laugh ceasing. With a sigh that seemed to drain all the air from his body, he curled up around his knees again, seeming so much smaller.  
"No... Do not touch me."  
"Why not? It was all a stupid misunderstanding, but it is sorted now." Alistair's voice was strained, and he wanted to hold Zevran. To reassure him that things could be fine again, to reassure himself. The assassin shook his head.  
"Its not that... You have to understand... when I learnt what had happened to you, I had to go back to what I'd been as a Crow. I shut myself off, forced myself not to feel, lest I go charging off to die at the doorstep of the fortress. I did things I thought I had lost the taste for, used poisons I knew which were brutal. I unleashed the part of me that I am afraid of, a darkness I am not sure I can contain again."  
Alistair thought he understood. While the others may have been worried sick about him, Zevran had been charged to actually do something about it. He knew too well the weight of duty, and the expectation to accomplish the near impossible. The blight had consumed his own life for so long, he longed for something more than killing and fighting and blood. In part, he suspected that was why he had submitted to his desires with Zevran, just for the chance to feel something other with another person, something tender and warm. It had restored his humanity in a way, allowed him to accept that he was not just some darkspawn slaying golem, that he was permitted to feel. He was prepared to die, if it would stop the blight, but now in Zevran he found he had something he was ready to live for as well.  
"What you did... you had to, and I will always be grateful."  
Zevran's jaw tightened, and he could see the pain in the elf's face.  
"What I did was become a Crow again. And we both know Crows are dangerous, and not to be trusted."  
"I trust you Zevran..."  
"Then you are a fool." The insult held no spite, but a strange sadness. Conflict marred Zevran's face, and he tried to rise from the bed. Alistair laid a firm hand on his shoulder, and held the assassin back from leaving.  
"No. We are going to talk about this. I could have saved you a lot of pain if I'd spoken to you sooner, and I'm damn well not going to make the same mistake again."  
Zevran twisted, trying to shrug off Alistair's hand, but his bandaged arm could not move as well as he would have liked.  
"Fine, I will talk. I plan to go. I will leave, get out of the city, out of the country and let you save the world in peace. You do not need me, and it will be easier... For both of us."  
"I ... don't want you to go."  
Alistair held both shoulders, careful not to hurt the one shrouded in bandages, locking his eyes upon Zevran's, ignoring the flash of bared teeth. The assassin scowled, he was trying, for once in his life, to put someone else over his own desires, why did the templar have to make things so *difficult*. Besides, he didn't think he could cope with the feelings Alistair stirred in him. He could cut swathes through ranks of darkspawn, decent into the very pits of the earth looking for ancient relics and even lay siege to a fortress, but the idea of being near Alistair if he didn't feel the same way struck a fear inside him he thought he'd managed to overcome years ago. And that last time had ended... very badly.  
"Let me go... before I hurt you." Not a threat, but a plead.  
He felt Zevran's chest heave, and the assassin exhaled through clenched teeth.  
He took a nervous breath himself, fighting down a lump fast forming in his throat. He could let the assassin go, let him walk away and leave him to focus on the archdemon. It would indeed be easier, safer. Zevran obviously feared hurting him, emotionally rather than physically, and Alistair was not so native that he didn't acknowledge that risk. He could chose to stay dutybound, and unentangled in the complex elf. He could, but knew he wouldn't.  
He leaned in, and gently cupped his head towards him. the assassin watched him carefully, brown eyes fixed upon him.  
"You saved my life Zevren... It wouldn't have been a good way to die," he spoke not only of Zevran's valiant rescue, but also of giving him meaning to his life. Alistair felt like he might burn under Zevran's heated gaze, and his voice dropped to a low soft whisper;  
"Will you let me repay you?"  
A slow wide smile spread across Zevran's face, and he nodded, once. He sank into Alistair's arms, running his lips against the knuckles of his hands, kissing the tender skin of the inside of his wrists. Alistair moaned softly as he clutched the elf to him, breathing in the scent of blonde hair against his face.  
Zevran pressed himself against Alistair's chest, arching backwards so that their lips could meet. Alistair stroked the side of the slender neck, and pressed his lips to Zevran's. Zevran flicked a tongue out, teasing and Alistair hungrily pushed into the other's mouth, the fingers on the neck curling, letting fingernails dig in just a little. Zevran's little noises of pleasure were intoxicating, and Alistair quickly found he was breathing heavily against the tanned skin. Likewise, Zevran was finding it hard to breath normally, not least as Alistair had started to nibble against his ear. He could hear Alistair making appreciative grunts, felt the hot breath against his skin and teeth applying just enough pressure to cause him to shiver in the warden's arms.  
Alistair started to pull at the shirt hiding those curls of black ink, wanting to feel skin against his own. With his good arm, Zevran aided in taking the loose shirt off, and then twisted so he was facing Alistair, his own hands delving under the fabric and caress the skin beneath. Alistair raised his arms, and his eyes dropped to the belt buckle, tight against Zevran's hip. He slid the tips of his fingers under the belt, and with a mischievous grin, pulled, so that Zevran practically landed on top of him. Alistair held the elf tightly, kissing him deeply, his tongue reveling in the heat from their mouths, from the way Zevran would sigh into the kiss happily, eyes closing as Alistair stroked the back of his head.  
When they broke for breath, Zevran placed his hands upon Alistairs shoulders, pinning him down. He moved a knee up between Alistair's legs, flexing it slightly so that he would feel it through his trousers. He reached down for the fastenings at Alistair's waist, and managed to get them loosened, and finally untied. A single finger drew a line down from his navel, and Alistair couldn't stop his hips moving along with that delicate touch.  
With one of Zevran's hands busy, Alistair had one shoulder free, and he reached up to run fingers down the taunt chest before him. Having the Antivan here in front of him, skilled fingers now curling around the hair beneath his underclothes was almost too much, and he pulled again on the belt, bumping Zevern's hips with his own.  
The heat now favored with sweat and the delicate scent of arousal washed over the pair, as Alistair sat up on the bed, supporting Zevran.  
Zevran stood, quickly taking off his trousers and letting them slip to the floor. Alistair struggled out of the remains his own clothes, savoring the sight of Zevran standing there, naked save for the bandage on his arm, and a flash of teeth behind a knowing smile. Aware of Alistair's gaze, he stretched over to the desk and brought a bottle of something dark. He tipped a small amount of the leather oil he'd been using on his armor into his hand, warming it in his palm before carefully stroking it over Alistair's waiting member.  
As glistening fingers rubbed and massaged, Alistair placed both hands on Zevran's hips, pulling them down, impatient to feel the elf around him. He could see the want in the templar's eyes, and his own need throbbed with a pressing urgency. He sat himself upon Alistair's stiff manhood, arching as the heat filled him, pushing all the air from him in a low soft moan. The hand on his hips trembled as he started to move, watching Alistair's head tip backwards. He controlled the pace, and though he could feel Alistair start to shift under him, he fought down the instinct to speed up, instead working up to a slow but powerful resolution.  
As Alistair started to make little grunts was each breath, his fingers digging into the tanned skin over his hips, Zevran leaned back, the angle deeper and the thrusts starting to take on the desperate need he felt building within him. Breaths becoming almost too quick to fuel his lungs, he started to force himself onto Alistair, the heat and way he filled his insides with a raw and rapacious energy overtaking him. Alistair then touched upon the elf's member, squeezing lighting and starting to pump in time with Zevran's thrusts.  
Overwhelmed, he rolled his hips just so, his body tightening, and he felt Alistair spilt into him. Alistair gripped then, bringing release to Zevran, and they slide down onto the bed, hot and sweaty and satisfied.  
Once Alistair had manage to stop breathing so heavily, as if the air in the room were going to run out, Zevran turned and rested his head upon the templar's chest, fingers threaded and hair falling down his face in untidy strands.  
"Well. For better or worse, my dear grey warden, it would seem you are stuck with me."  
Arms engulfed him, holding him so tight he felt his ribs creak slightly under the pressure.  
"Good." Alistair breathed, smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

epilogue

They were sitting together, a flask of wine which Zevran was complimenting as being 'nearly drinkable'. Alistair out of his armor, but almost back on form, much to his fellow grey warden's relief. The last few Banns were gathering for the landsmeet, and things seemed to be actually going to plan for once. They both knew it would not last, but Zevran had insisted that they have at least one night together with some wine and a enjoy the lull before the next crisis broke loose.  
Even though he was wearing a loose shirt, Zevran still had a bandage wrapped around the length of his arm. The way he'd diverted every enquiry with just a touch of sharpness to his voice had meant Alistair had not pried too much as too what had happened. Lounging, as only the assassin could, he reached for a second glass.  
"So Ferelden wine is not so bad then?"  
"Only slightly more appealing than pond water." came the reply, with a wide flourishing gesture with his bad arm that caused him to wince. Alistair watched the elf try to mask his pain, but he could not hide the dark blotch starting to spread down his sleeve.  
He quickly rose and brought over fresh bandages, and sat down beside him.  
"Let me change that bandage. I can probably tie it tighter, and stop you undoing all Wynn's hard work."  
"As you will...." Zevran had become quiet, and as Alistair carefully rolled up the now blood stained sleeve and unwind the bandages, he saw a terrible wound running down Zevran's arm. It was deep, and had some uneven stitches which obviously could not hold up to the flamboyant elf's movements. He hesitated, wondering if he should go fetch Wynn through to re-sew the gash, when Zevran shook his head.  
"Strap it tight, and I'll try not to move it so much."  
"A proper healer would make a better job of it than me are you sure?"  
"Wynn, I believe, has threatened death upon anyone who disturbed her during her hot bath." That edge to his tone again, just enough of a warning guised under the comment to make Alistair frown. He said nothing, and did indeed bandage the arm, tight as he thought Zevran would be able to bear.  
When he finished he passed the wine over, though he suspected Zevran may benefit from something stronger, if they could prize it from Oghren's hands.  
"Thank you," and with an exaggerated motion with his other hand, Zevran tipped his glass at Alistair before draining the glass.  
"Pond water..." he muttered, forcing a grin. "But good pond water at least."

Alistair had gone to fetch more wine, quietly collecting more fresh cloth for bandages should they need them. When he came back, Zevran was running his fingers over the damaged arm, staring into the fire. He'd drank fairly heavily, though Alistair suspected he was trying to combat the pain in his arm.  
"It is from the fort, isn't it...." he said softly, setting the wine down and sitting by the small fireside.  
"...Yes. "  
Zevran had rescued Alistair from Fort Drakon 12 days ago, which left plenty of time for him to have gotten the wound almost entirely healed. He furrowed his brow, why would the elf chose to suffer the injury.  
"Oh don't look at me like that..." Zevran sighed and swung his legs over the chair, so that they rested upon Alistair's thigh. He leaned in, and continued,  
"Do you remember getting out of the fort?"  
"Sort of... its all a bit hazy."  
"We were nearly out. The sounds of the maddened mabrai were fading, but so was your strength. I was amazed you had made it so far, but I could see you were tiring, starting to stagger.  
"There was a guard, some token man placed by the servants exit who had stuck to his post despite my careful orchestrated panic. He saw me, saw you and charged down the stairs with a sword. You had no armor, and made the easiest target, so he swept the sword down at you first. I'm not sure if you saw him or not, but you could not have moved fast enough, even if you wanted to. And when the blow came down, I found myself in the way, between you and him. I didn't have time to use a dagger against him, and my armor was not dense enough to protect me... You can see how deep it cut.  
"I dispatched the guard, and dragged you out of that hellhole. And for the longest time I could not figure out why I stepped into his sword, it is not something I normally do, thank goodness. Then I realized, I'd done it to save you. It was no conscious decision, I just reacted to the threat.... it forced me to realize my feelings towards you, to acknowledge them. So I have been loathe to have it mended, I rather like the idea of having a reminder, even if it is a bit of an eyesore."  
Zevran leaned back, confession finished and anxiously watched Alistair's eyes for reaction. Alistair simply rose to his knees, and kissed the assassin. Though by night Zevran gave up his body without reservation, his inner feelings remained secret. Alistair knew, from listening to a heated discussion between the assassin and the bard that Zevran was not one to speak of love, so he suspected that the confession might be as close as he would ever get to an admission of affection. When they finally parted lips, Zevran gave a wry smirk.  
"Still, I hope any further revelations are a bit less painful." 


End file.
